Today is my birthday, and that sucks. Last year on my birthday I was just getting out of the hospital after a couple weeks…suicide attempt number I’ve-lost-track. It was a little more serious than some other tries, since I used an actual lethal method. But then I wussed out and took myself to the hospital or something, at this point I honestly don’t remember.
But the reason this birthday sucks is that between this birthday and last birthday, and that birthday and the one before…I’ve done absolutely nothing with my life. I’ve gone backwards. I flunked a semester of college and had to quit my job because I’m a shit worker.
Most importantly, I’ve been depressed. Steadily, without pause, for far longer than two years. And I don’t expect that I will ever not be depressed.
The reason this birthday sucks is that I should not be here. I should have allowed one of my many suicide attempts to work, and if none of them did, tried harder. I’m just wasting my life. Literally the only benefit I’m providing to the world is lowering my roommate’s rent payment. Otherwise, I’m just selfishly sucking resources. Maybe if I was happy and content, I would be fine with selfish sucking resources. But I’m not, so it seems rather pointless.
So here’s my promise, my vow, my determination: I will not see another birthday. No more. I refuse.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Thursday, November 12, 2015
I wonder how many of those important things that make life worth living I'll lose before I decide it's enough?
The question is ridiculous, of course. For one, no matter what I think or decide about things, I don't get to decide what I lose. For another, well, I can't think of any I have left.
There are important things in my life still. They just aren't of the variety that makes opening my eyes in the morning something to look forward to rather than dread.
My grandma just died, and given how close they were, I doubt my grandpa is far behind. In the midst of that grief, I've wondered whether it would be better to wait and not add to it, or let my family grieve all at once.
That idea too is ridiculous, because if I cared about my family's grief I would not be thinking of ending my life. Or at least, if I cared about their grief more than I cared about my own.
I just spent a minute or so gazing down at the xacto knife in front of me. It's sitting out and not put away because I've been thinking about using it.
A few months ago I carved the word "futile" into my arm. You can still see "TILE," because the scars themselves mock me.
Since that time I have not been without cause or means to cut again, nor even without desire. Yet my skin remains unblemished.
Part of me longs to bleed again, and perhaps I shall. The problem is that it won't help, not now, not anymore, not enough.
Once upon a time, it did help. Once upon a time, it was all I needed to fight the darkness, though like all things that fight the darkness, it did not come without a price.
But, again like all things that fight the darkness, it no longer makes enough difference to justify its use. Which does not mean that I will not use it, only that using it will bring relief only barely past the time I put the knife back down.
The blade was born of darkness, yes, but also fire and passion and the desire to live and breathe and feel, and most of all, to fight. There is no passion to be found in my life, no fire, no desire.
The only thing that keeps me here, I think, is that lack of desire. If I do not desire to live, well, I do not desire to die either, or at least, not enough to do anything about it.
I have lost so much, but I do not grieve. I do not feel enough for that.
Yet even in the midst of emptiness, I continue to breathe. And continue to breathe I will, until, at last one day, I don't.
The question is ridiculous, of course. For one, no matter what I think or decide about things, I don't get to decide what I lose. For another, well, I can't think of any I have left.
There are important things in my life still. They just aren't of the variety that makes opening my eyes in the morning something to look forward to rather than dread.
My grandma just died, and given how close they were, I doubt my grandpa is far behind. In the midst of that grief, I've wondered whether it would be better to wait and not add to it, or let my family grieve all at once.
That idea too is ridiculous, because if I cared about my family's grief I would not be thinking of ending my life. Or at least, if I cared about their grief more than I cared about my own.
I just spent a minute or so gazing down at the xacto knife in front of me. It's sitting out and not put away because I've been thinking about using it.
A few months ago I carved the word "futile" into my arm. You can still see "TILE," because the scars themselves mock me.
Since that time I have not been without cause or means to cut again, nor even without desire. Yet my skin remains unblemished.
Part of me longs to bleed again, and perhaps I shall. The problem is that it won't help, not now, not anymore, not enough.
Once upon a time, it did help. Once upon a time, it was all I needed to fight the darkness, though like all things that fight the darkness, it did not come without a price.
But, again like all things that fight the darkness, it no longer makes enough difference to justify its use. Which does not mean that I will not use it, only that using it will bring relief only barely past the time I put the knife back down.
The blade was born of darkness, yes, but also fire and passion and the desire to live and breathe and feel, and most of all, to fight. There is no passion to be found in my life, no fire, no desire.
The only thing that keeps me here, I think, is that lack of desire. If I do not desire to live, well, I do not desire to die either, or at least, not enough to do anything about it.
I have lost so much, but I do not grieve. I do not feel enough for that.
Yet even in the midst of emptiness, I continue to breathe. And continue to breathe I will, until, at last one day, I don't.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Exactly why am I still alive?
That's a question I've been asking myself quite a bit over the last few months, actually. I haven't been able to come up with a good answer until really just now. I have managed to keep myself out of a mental hospital since April, which honestly, is pretty good for me. That's just about exactly 6 months. That's the longest I've been unhospitalized since I started being hospitalized last January, given that between last January (2014) and April (2015) I was hospitalized 15 times. That doesn't count the two different crisis centers I visited several times last spring, either. My point is, that by that one objective measure, I'm really doing quite well.
The problem, of course, is that I'm not. I did better for a bit after I jumped off that bridge. But almost as soon as I came home from my parents' house I started to crash. Or a bit before that, to be honest. In some ways, I came home so that I could crash. And I did. Hard. I made suicide plans and was not very far at all from implementing them. I only held off because I was persuaded to try therapy again. So I did. And it's not that it was useless, it's just that it didn't help. To be more accurate, I met with the new therapist three times, then he went on vacation for three weeks and by the time he came back, the government had fucked up my insurance again and he's no longer covered. I could fix it, of course. The problem is I don't care.
Which brings me back to the title of this post. Exactly why am I still alive? Because I don't care enough not to be. I was reading a book tonight, with a suicidal main character. Partway through I paused to consider that maybe that might not be the best reading material, but then I shrugged. Maybe the book would trigger something within me, maybe it would push me over the edge and back into that freefall that led to fifteen hospitalizations in sixteen months. Maybe it wouldn't, but the point is that I didn't particularly care either way. I still don't, so if it pushed me, it was just enough to realize why nothing else has pushed me over the brink yet. You see, the suicidal character in my book had will. He had determination. He had a large chunk of guilt he was trying desperately to relieve by paying the ultimate price. He had a reason to die. He was utterly and completely convinced that his death would be the best thing not only for him but for everyone else, as well.
I don't have those things. In the past, perhaps. It certainly took an iron will to step over the railing of that bridge. And then to wade out of the river once I realized it hadn't worked, instead of just staying there forever, which was my first choice. I definitely had the determination to stop feeling like I was feeling, even if it meant (and I was convinced it meant, had to mean) my death. And I was utterly and completely convinced that death would be the best thing for me. Only one of those things is true now. I still know that death is the only thing for me. There is nothing else, no hope, despite what I may have written on Tumblr. But I have no will, no determination. Certainly no guilt that would be alleviated by dying. I have nothing at all, and that is the problem.
You see, I know I'm not getting better, will never get better. I've accepted that, as difficult as it is. The problem is that I'm not getting worse at the moment, either. Why is that a problem? Because while I'm in this stagnant mindset, I do nothing. I dislike doing nothing. I was going to say I hate doing nothing, but then I stopped and realized I don't feel strongly enough about anything to justify a word like hate. I am too depressed to make me able to do anything, and that includes killing myself. So I haven't tried, not in six months. It's only been about three months since I stopped caring, and sometimes I muster up enough energy to wonder why that is, before deciding it doesn't matter anyway.
Exactly why am I still alive? Eh. Who cares.
The problem, of course, is that I'm not. I did better for a bit after I jumped off that bridge. But almost as soon as I came home from my parents' house I started to crash. Or a bit before that, to be honest. In some ways, I came home so that I could crash. And I did. Hard. I made suicide plans and was not very far at all from implementing them. I only held off because I was persuaded to try therapy again. So I did. And it's not that it was useless, it's just that it didn't help. To be more accurate, I met with the new therapist three times, then he went on vacation for three weeks and by the time he came back, the government had fucked up my insurance again and he's no longer covered. I could fix it, of course. The problem is I don't care.
Which brings me back to the title of this post. Exactly why am I still alive? Because I don't care enough not to be. I was reading a book tonight, with a suicidal main character. Partway through I paused to consider that maybe that might not be the best reading material, but then I shrugged. Maybe the book would trigger something within me, maybe it would push me over the edge and back into that freefall that led to fifteen hospitalizations in sixteen months. Maybe it wouldn't, but the point is that I didn't particularly care either way. I still don't, so if it pushed me, it was just enough to realize why nothing else has pushed me over the brink yet. You see, the suicidal character in my book had will. He had determination. He had a large chunk of guilt he was trying desperately to relieve by paying the ultimate price. He had a reason to die. He was utterly and completely convinced that his death would be the best thing not only for him but for everyone else, as well.
I don't have those things. In the past, perhaps. It certainly took an iron will to step over the railing of that bridge. And then to wade out of the river once I realized it hadn't worked, instead of just staying there forever, which was my first choice. I definitely had the determination to stop feeling like I was feeling, even if it meant (and I was convinced it meant, had to mean) my death. And I was utterly and completely convinced that death would be the best thing for me. Only one of those things is true now. I still know that death is the only thing for me. There is nothing else, no hope, despite what I may have written on Tumblr. But I have no will, no determination. Certainly no guilt that would be alleviated by dying. I have nothing at all, and that is the problem.
You see, I know I'm not getting better, will never get better. I've accepted that, as difficult as it is. The problem is that I'm not getting worse at the moment, either. Why is that a problem? Because while I'm in this stagnant mindset, I do nothing. I dislike doing nothing. I was going to say I hate doing nothing, but then I stopped and realized I don't feel strongly enough about anything to justify a word like hate. I am too depressed to make me able to do anything, and that includes killing myself. So I haven't tried, not in six months. It's only been about three months since I stopped caring, and sometimes I muster up enough energy to wonder why that is, before deciding it doesn't matter anyway.
Exactly why am I still alive? Eh. Who cares.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Vocabulary
"How are you?" "Eh, I'm alive." I know you accept that and move on. Perhaps you think that "I'm alive" is in some way preferable to "I'm suicidal" or perhaps "I'm dying." Perhaps it is. But when you ask me how I am and all I can say is "I'm alive," it isn't a good thing. It means I continue to breathe but that is all that can be said for my existence. I'm not happy. I'm not fine. I'm not anything even remotely approaching those things. I am alive, and that is all.
"How are you?" "Not doing so great, honestly." This is the most honest I will be with you. And it's an extreme understatement. "Not doing so great" is how I say "there is nothing left for me but death." And while maybe that isn't obvious, it's still simply stunning to me how many people will just leave it there. Do you think you've done your friendly duty by simply asking? I can't be too upset, I guess. By my understatement, I've given you the out you so desperately desire.
"How are you?" "I'm really depressed and suicidal." I don't say this much. Why not? It gets the exact same response as if I said "I'm fine," or "I'm alive," or "not doing so great." Which is to say, it doesn't get a response at all. Or if it does, the response goes something like "I'm sorry to hear that." You know what? If that's all your response is, an indication of how my depression affects you, it is better that you don't ask at all. At least then I could delude myself into thinking maybe someone would care if I opened up, instead of the hopeless realization I've opened myself up again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and it makes no difference.
"I want to die." The translation here is, "I want to die."
"There is no hope for me." I will never get better. I've come to accept that, intellectually. I've looked at the past and the present and made a reasonable prediction about the future. I expect that when it sinks its way into my ever-hoping heart, I won't be around to scream pointlessly into the void anymore.
"What can I do to help?" "I don't know. Nothing." Although I may feel like that's true, and in the long run, it really is, there are things I wish you would do even after I've said it won't help. Here they are: talk to me. Just talk. Tell me all the things I don't believe about myself and the world. Not religious things. But tell me it gets better, even when I tell you it won't. Tell me I am worth fighting for. Tell me I mean something, to you. Tell me even if it never gets better for me, that I've made a difference, to you, to someone. Tell me that even if I died right now, today, I wouldn't be forgotten. Tell me I'd be missed. Talk to me. Tell me that sometimes life just isn't fair. Tell me I'm allowed to be sad. Tell me you know I can't help it, but you also know I'm strong and I'll survive. I won't believe you, but tell me anyway.
"<a sad post about depression>" Translation: I'm screaming into the void, hoping it will answer, hoping it will care. Be the void.
"How are you?" "Not doing so great, honestly." This is the most honest I will be with you. And it's an extreme understatement. "Not doing so great" is how I say "there is nothing left for me but death." And while maybe that isn't obvious, it's still simply stunning to me how many people will just leave it there. Do you think you've done your friendly duty by simply asking? I can't be too upset, I guess. By my understatement, I've given you the out you so desperately desire.
"How are you?" "I'm really depressed and suicidal." I don't say this much. Why not? It gets the exact same response as if I said "I'm fine," or "I'm alive," or "not doing so great." Which is to say, it doesn't get a response at all. Or if it does, the response goes something like "I'm sorry to hear that." You know what? If that's all your response is, an indication of how my depression affects you, it is better that you don't ask at all. At least then I could delude myself into thinking maybe someone would care if I opened up, instead of the hopeless realization I've opened myself up again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and it makes no difference.
"I want to die." The translation here is, "I want to die."
"There is no hope for me." I will never get better. I've come to accept that, intellectually. I've looked at the past and the present and made a reasonable prediction about the future. I expect that when it sinks its way into my ever-hoping heart, I won't be around to scream pointlessly into the void anymore.
"What can I do to help?" "I don't know. Nothing." Although I may feel like that's true, and in the long run, it really is, there are things I wish you would do even after I've said it won't help. Here they are: talk to me. Just talk. Tell me all the things I don't believe about myself and the world. Not religious things. But tell me it gets better, even when I tell you it won't. Tell me I am worth fighting for. Tell me I mean something, to you. Tell me even if it never gets better for me, that I've made a difference, to you, to someone. Tell me that even if I died right now, today, I wouldn't be forgotten. Tell me I'd be missed. Talk to me. Tell me that sometimes life just isn't fair. Tell me I'm allowed to be sad. Tell me you know I can't help it, but you also know I'm strong and I'll survive. I won't believe you, but tell me anyway.
"<a sad post about depression>" Translation: I'm screaming into the void, hoping it will answer, hoping it will care. Be the void.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Eternity
I don't think hell exists. I think the concept is entirely at odds with the concept of a good God, and if God is not good, he doesn't exist in the form the Bible says he does and if he doesn't exist, it stands to reason hell doesn't exist either. After all, people have seen the light in near-death experiences, but I haven't heard of anybody feeling the flames.
I don't think heaven exists, either, but I'm actually far more afraid of being wrong about that. As humans, we do tend to have an inherent fear of dying. The solution to that seems to be the ability to live forever, but is that truly what we want? I know people who look forward to heaven as an extension of their lifelong love of learning. And while that's cool and I would love to learn everything there is to know about the universe, what happens after that? It might take a million years to learn everything (and if you managed that, wouldn't you be at least a lowercase god?), but what will you do in the million million million years after that?
The most spiritual of Christians (or at least the ones who want to appear so) tend to answer that with "you'll be praising God for all eternity." Leaving out what size ego God must have to need even a fraction of the 7 billion people currently living (forgetting all who've lived or will live) telling him how good he is constantly for eternity...is that really what you want? If so, why aren't you in church 24/7?
Anyway. The idea of eternity is terrifying to me. Even if I had the most perfect life, I wouldn't want to have it forever. No, the certainty that life ends is much more hopeful to me than the idea that it might continue indefinitely.
I don't think heaven exists, either, but I'm actually far more afraid of being wrong about that. As humans, we do tend to have an inherent fear of dying. The solution to that seems to be the ability to live forever, but is that truly what we want? I know people who look forward to heaven as an extension of their lifelong love of learning. And while that's cool and I would love to learn everything there is to know about the universe, what happens after that? It might take a million years to learn everything (and if you managed that, wouldn't you be at least a lowercase god?), but what will you do in the million million million years after that?
The most spiritual of Christians (or at least the ones who want to appear so) tend to answer that with "you'll be praising God for all eternity." Leaving out what size ego God must have to need even a fraction of the 7 billion people currently living (forgetting all who've lived or will live) telling him how good he is constantly for eternity...is that really what you want? If so, why aren't you in church 24/7?
Anyway. The idea of eternity is terrifying to me. Even if I had the most perfect life, I wouldn't want to have it forever. No, the certainty that life ends is much more hopeful to me than the idea that it might continue indefinitely.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
They tell me it gets better.
They aren’t really lying, but
They’re lying.
It doesn’t get better.
Ever.
They tell me to tell someone.
My friends, perhaps.
But I have told my friends
Time and time again,
And either they don’t care
Or they can’t handle it.
Either way,
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
They tell me to seek help.
How many therapists
And hospitals and groups and pills
Do I try before I recognize
The truth?
They can’t help.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
How many nights will I go to sleep
And how many mornings will I awaken
Hoping that somehow today
I will find the strength to go on.
Today I will be able to help myself.
Today will be better.
Today is never better.
I had a therapist
Who focused on self-injury
And made her main goal
Physical damage reduction.
I had a therapist
Who focused on religion
And made his main goal
(Unobtainable) holiness.
I had a therapist
Who focused on relationships
And made his main goal
Awakening a desire to parent.
I had a therapist
Who focused on herself
And that was just fucking
Useless.
Now I have a new therapist
And who knows what he’ll focus on.
And it will work just as well as anything else
Which is to say,
It won’t.
I don’t want to cope with this.
I want it to be gone.
I’ve come to realize that
I may never get better.
That I’ll struggle with depression
And self-harm, and suicide,
For the rest of my life.
And that is simply unacceptable.
I refuse to live like this.
I don’t want to cope with depression,
I want depression to be fucking gone.
I don’t want to “manage” this,
And I refuse to live with it,
Which honestly only leaves
One option.
Only one.
Excuse me while I go
Find a gun
Or a tall building
Or a speeding semi
Or a train.
Anything will do.
They aren’t really lying, but
They’re lying.
It doesn’t get better.
Ever.
They tell me to tell someone.
My friends, perhaps.
But I have told my friends
Time and time again,
And either they don’t care
Or they can’t handle it.
Either way,
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
They tell me to seek help.
How many therapists
And hospitals and groups and pills
Do I try before I recognize
The truth?
They can’t help.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
How many nights will I go to sleep
And how many mornings will I awaken
Hoping that somehow today
I will find the strength to go on.
Today I will be able to help myself.
Today will be better.
Today is never better.
I had a therapist
Who focused on self-injury
And made her main goal
Physical damage reduction.
I had a therapist
Who focused on religion
And made his main goal
(Unobtainable) holiness.
I had a therapist
Who focused on relationships
And made his main goal
Awakening a desire to parent.
I had a therapist
Who focused on herself
And that was just fucking
Useless.
Now I have a new therapist
And who knows what he’ll focus on.
And it will work just as well as anything else
Which is to say,
It won’t.
I don’t want to cope with this.
I want it to be gone.
I’ve come to realize that
I may never get better.
That I’ll struggle with depression
And self-harm, and suicide,
For the rest of my life.
And that is simply unacceptable.
I refuse to live like this.
I don’t want to cope with depression,
I want depression to be fucking gone.
I don’t want to “manage” this,
And I refuse to live with it,
Which honestly only leaves
One option.
Only one.
Excuse me while I go
Find a gun
Or a tall building
Or a speeding semi
Or a train.
Anything will do.
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